Sirens
by CrumbsUK
Summary: As the Blood Eagle cases reach a climax, Greg finally discovers who has been threatening him, but in doing so, he is faced with a new ordeal as the wrath of a seventy year old vendetta is unleashed upon him. Chronicles of Las Vegas - 1x07
1. Part 1 of 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own CSI or its affiliated characters. Characters not in the series are my own.**

**A/N: This is the seventh story in my series, **_**Chronicles of Las Vegas**_**. Make sure you read the previous story, **_**Blood Eagle**_** (1x06) first, because this story directly follows on from it, which will allow you to fully appreciate the context of this story. :)**

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><p><em><strong>LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM.<strong>_

_**Thursday, January 16, 1941**_

_A lone man walked down the silent and blacked out streets of the British capital city. Even though it was a freezing twenty-one degrees, it did not faze the man although he still donned a large, winter jacket to protect him from the wind. He'd been walking for around an hour, along the way meeting virtually nobody except for perhaps a few members of the Home Guard or the odd homeless person, whom he would toss a penny to out of sympathy. People tended to stay inside in the winter evenings, but more so nowadays where it was unsafe even to venture out on a summer night._

_He turned into a road which was unfamiliar, by that, the environment was unfamiliar, he made the route often but this was the first he'd seen it in this sorry state. Where once there were ordered terraces now lay in a disorganised concrete rubble, a haunting reminder of the devastating normality._

"_You alright, son?" The man jumped as he saw a member of the Home Guard approach him. He was elderly and beginning to bald but strangely comforting, warming up the cold atmosphere around him. "It's not safe to be on the streets at night." He gestured to the houses lain in ruin behind them, and added solemnly, "three nights ago, there were fifty-two families living here."_

"_I'm errm... on my way to a friend's," the man replied naturally, forgetting he was no longer in his native country._

_The Home Guard officer looked at him strangely, "you have a peculiar accent," he commented suspiciously._

"_Urr... I'm from the North," the man hastily replied._

"_Ah, you're Scottish," the Home Guard officer said satisfied. "I shoulda known. Run along now, Scottish or not, the Luftwaffe aren't gonna spare you any mercy."_

_The man quickly took the opportunity to walk away and continue heading towards his destination. Ten minutes later, he reached an area full of pubs and speak-easies; he approached a particular one with a red varnished door and knocked three times. A slot in the door opened and he felt a pair of eyes scan him thoroughly, having passed the 'test', the door opened to him and he was allowed entry._

_The man descended down a candle-lit staircase into an open cellar type room. Five men were seated around a circular table in the room, playing cards and smoking cigars. They were the only people seated in the room; the man at the door followed him down the stairs and assumed his position as barman._

"_Ah Hojem you made it," the man sat directly opposite the entrance cried out joyfully. He too had a foreign accent with matching blonde hair, although he sported facial hair and was a little older than Hojem. "Please, come and join us."_

_Hojem cautiously took a seat next to the man, whose name was Strasse. The barman came over and offered a drink to Hojem although he politely denied it, "no thanks, Grimsrund."_

"_So," the British man sat next to Hojem, Lewis, spoke up. "Shall we talk business?"_

"_What business is there to talk about?" Stasse said. "Quisling's just given us the job of recruiting and informing him of information regarding a counter-attack by the Allies."_

"_Shouldn't we be reporting this to Terboven?" Another man at the table spoke up._

"_Terboven is not our leader, and never will be!" Strasse cried out causing the remaining men around the table to shush him to keep his voice down. "Sorry, it just makes me mad that the Nazis don't think we could rule ourselves."_

_There was the sound of unanimous agreement from around the table, although Hojem only contributed half-heartedly. At that moment, the faint yet distinctive sound of air raid sirens began to blare from the street above, although the men did not panic, for they were safe in this cellar. A few moments later the sound of knocking could be heard from the top of the stairs causing Strasse to roll his eyes._

"_That's probably Poulsen, late again as usual," Strasse said in an annoyed tone. "Grimsrund, if you'd please."_

_They all watched Grimsrund climb the stairs to look through the door but a moment later they heard a loud crash, footsteps rapidly descending the staircase and the full sound of the sirens began to echo around the cellar. In an instant the room was filled with officers from the Home Guard all with loaded rifles pointing at the men around the room._

"_All of you against the wall!" One of the Home Guard officers hollered to them. "Hands where I can see them! You're all under arrest for espionage as well as crimes against the country"_

_Hojem felt a sense of dread as he faced the wall, he felt an officer gruffly force his hands behind his back and felt the cold handcuffs encase his wrists. The sound of sirens began to magnify and the sounds of footsteps running along the road could also be heard. Hojem felt the officer move him away from the wall and push him towards the staircase. However the two of them were halted by the officer at the door, who simply pointed to Hojem. A sense of relief swept over him as his wrists felt freedom._

_A look of horror emerged on Strasse's face upon seeing this exchange. "You!" He cried out. "You betrayed us?"_

"_You betrayed your country," Hojem smugly replied to the enraged Strasse._

"_You're a dead man!" Strasse called out as he was led up the staircase, he shouted back in Norwegian. "You better watch your back, Hojem!"_

_Heeding to Strasse's advice, Hojem leaped up the staircase and back into the cold London air. He looked at Grimsrund, who also had not been arrested and tipped his hat to him, before taking off into the shadows of London's streets as the street returned to an eerie silence that was only interrupted by the distant sound of falling bombs and the oscillating wailing of the air raid sirens._

The wailing sirens of an ambulance passing by awoke Greg from his daydream. _Was it a daydream?_ He looked around and found he was seated in the back of a police car. _What was he doing here?_

* * *

><p>He quickly cast his mind back to the events earlier that evening. He'd helped catch some guys in a nightclub and then he'd begun investigating a series of gruesome deaths. <em>The Blood Eagle<em>. His mind clicked back into action as he recalled what had happened in the apartment. The door was unlocked, the air conditioning was left on, and his food had been taken from the fridge. And then the phone rang. He shuddered as he remembered the cold voice on the other end.

"You better watch your back, Hojem."

Then he remembered grabbing his pistol, which lay in the drawer by his bed. He had loaded it and taken the safety off. He remembered the butterflies he'd gotten, this was the closest he'd come to actually firing his weapon other than his qualification test. He looked into the bathroom where he saw the body of the serial killer's latest victim, displayed to show the true Blood Eagle. There was writing on the wall. DON'T. TURN. AROUND. He remembered hearing a noise, before gripping the pistol tightly and prepared, for the first time in his career, to shoot with intent to harm if necessary. He turned around.

Although he could feel someone, or something move behind him, he found himself looking at his empty hallway. The noise, he quickly realised was the bathroom door, which would automatically close slowly behind him emitting an eerie screech. Greg let the door close as he saw something on the back of it. More blood. More writing. _Made you look_.

He was being toyed with; Greg could feel the puppet strings tugging at his limbs as he carefully made his way towards his home phone, trying hard not to contaminate the crime scene. Before dialling nine-one-one, he paused for a moment. What would his colleagues think? What would the CSIs find? Could this be the end of his career as he knew it? The career he had fought desperately hard to obtain? The efforts he had made to convince his superiors that he could move from lab rat to field mouse, the first such move in the crime lab's history?

As he sat in the back of the police car, he realised his senses had come to him, he had done the right thing and had called the police department, but that proved little comfort to him as he had watched his apartment block overrun by law enforcement and he pleaded to himself, that whatever they would find, he would get out of it in one piece.

* * *

><p>"Hold out your arms, please."<p>

_Flash._

Greg complied as his colleague circled him, taking photographs of his clothes. Although he had figured that she knew he couldn't have been culpable, it was still necessary towards the investigation, it made him feel uneasy, it made _him_ feel like the perpetrator.

"I'm sorry Greg," Sara told him sadly. "I'm gonna need your clothes and your shoes." She pointed to his feet and to his displeasure; he noticed the crimson bloodstains licking the sides of his shoes. He nodded to her and she told him. "Uh, I can look away as well?"

"Well it's not like you haven't seen everything," Greg chuckled to her, remembering an incident in his first year as a CSI where the two of them ended up having to be decontaminated by Hazmat.

Sara replied with a smile and a smirk, before her face returned to its glum expression as she handed him the orange overalls reluctantly. _Great_, he thought to himself. _If this doesn't make me feel like a criminal I don't know what will. _Sara could sense the bitterness in his expression. "You're going to be alright, Greg," she told him, hoping it would bring a few words of comfort to him.

Greg nodded sheepishly, not really taking in what she had said but allowing himself not to get too worked up as he stayed seated in the interrogation room in his orange overalls. Sara had become occupied with bagging Greg's clothes. There was a sinister silence which filled the room, in Greg's eyes at least, Sara was far too indulged in her job to make conversation with him although he partly knew that was general procedure for the job.

"Catherine pulled some strings, didn't she?" He spoke up, breaking the silence between them.

"What do you mean?" Sara replied.

"You shouldn't be working the case," Greg began to explain. "I'm the first witness, the first suspect, this case is too personal."

"We're facing a serial killer Greg, and Nick has worked the previous two cases relating to them, it was pretty logical really rather than briefing the whole of Swing shift."

"I presume I'll be pulled off the case then." Sara nodded to him and a twinge of disappointment hit him, although it was hardly surprising. "I know you'll do a great job."

"Thanks Greg. As much as I'd like to let you go, until we've finished processing the scene we can't let you go." She sighed and told him with gritted teeth, "Also, someone from Internal Affairs would like to speak with you concerning..."

"Internal Affairs?" Greg cried out with disbelief. "Surely there's not enough evidence yet to say that I had any involvement with this murder."

"It's just standard procedure..."

"Standard procedure? There's nothing standard about this investigation! Why should there be a need for Internal Affairs to sneak their noses into..."

"Look Greg. Just bear with us, it's for your own good." Sara snapped at him collecting up everything she had collected from him. "I shouldn't need to tell you that the whole team is hoping the evidence doesn't point back to you."

With an irritated glance at Greg she strode out of the room, leaving Greg alone with the overseeing officer, whose presence did very little in relieving the tension in the room. When the door had fully closed, the officer, whom Greg recognised to be Officer Highcliffe walked over to where Greg was sitting and bent down, scratching his stubble and he whispered into Greg's ear.

"You know, it's not fair is it, don't worry buddy, I'm on your side."

The words again proved to be little comfort to Greg who remained transfixed in his seat, staring into space as he absent-mindedly tapped his fingers on the table to the rhythm of _Feel Like Makin' Love_.

* * *

><p>Ray entered the apartment to discover that his colleagues were already using valuable time combing the entire scene. He had been due to take the day off and had a scheduled check up in the afternoon but he had cancelled it upon hearing from Catherine that one of his co-workers was in trouble. Ray knew that this was far more important and that Greg would do the same for him.<p>

His first destination was to the bathroom where to his surprise both David and Doc Robbins had placed the body on a gurney and wheeled it out of the apartment.

"What did you learn from the body?" Ray asked Doc Robbins.

"Well, he certainly didn't die here," Doc Robbins responded. "Lack of lividity showed that he was moved here. The body also shows similar characteristics to the previous two cases. The victim's wallet and IDs were left on his person, cash still in the wallet and I also found adhesive residue on his wrists and ankles."

"Who's the victim?"

"Here's a name you'll recognise, Dirk Faversham."

"Dirk Faversham?" Ray asked surprised. "You mean the Dirk Faversham who was a candidate for Goodman's successor. I recall he was an avid supporter of communism."

"The very one," Doc Robbins replied idly, signing off on his notes.

"He had some pretty extreme views. It looks like this could be a case of political motive."

"Or a possible act of McCarthyism," Doc Robbins notified. "We suspect this is the work of the Blood Eagle killers, possibly related to a far-right fascist group from Norway."

"Norway? Now I've worked some pretty strange cases but I don't see how you've linked those together."

"You probably ought to read up on your notes then," Doc Robbins laughed to him tapping the briefing which sat in Ray's hands. "How are you doing anyway? How's it going with... you know..." he faltered off but Ray knew what he was hinting at.

"Not too bad actually, getting to the gym has been pretty difficult," he admitted glumly. "And I haven't been able to run anywhere near as much as I used to be but it's been alright this week."

"That's good to hear," Doc Robbins smiled to him as he began to walk away. "You know, you should probably consider going back to being a pathologist, nowhere near the amount of work and stress as being in the field."

"It's still the same number of dead bodies though," Ray pointed out. "Why, are you thinking of retiring soon?"

"Hell no," Doc Robbins chuckled as he walked away. "Know this Ray; I am never going to retire."

* * *

><p>Nick brushed sweat away from his forehead as he and Catherine searched the bathroom and the kitchen for any signs of the killers wandering through Greg's apartment. "I've got to admit Catherine; I've never seen this place look so tidy."<p>

The two of them exchanged smirks as they looked through Greg's eccentric livelihood, tossing porn magazines, old coupons and various books relating to surfing aside. "I've got a coin collection here," Catherine said. "Robbery certainly wasn't a motive."

"Well if you look at the bathroom you'll see it seems as if they're trying to mess with Greg." He indicated to the writing on the wall and the back of the bathroom door.

"I already tested all of that," Catherine told him. "The coroner stated that it's likely the victim was slashed across his back, the lack of blood spatter confirms that Mr Faversham was not killed at the scene."

"Killer could have cleaned up?"

"If they did, they did a pretty damn good job of it; I didn't identify any bleach substance used. The writing, although I determined it to be blood is not from a human donor."

"What is it then?"

"Pigs blood."

"Well that's an easy purchase from the butchers, not necessarily a common one though, that ought to be worth following up." Nick began to dust for prints along the refrigerator and unsurprisingly he managed to obtain many. "Greg said in his statement that the food from his fridge was stolen, maybe our thieves left their own little treats behind." He pulled the prints using five pieces of adhesive and filed them away. "So I see you've taken over my case, what gives?"

Catherine began to laugh to herself quietly, "Well Nicky, this is a pretty big case. High profile victim, serial killer and a dead body found in a CSIs house. This is now a priority, heck, I've been pulled off the Juan Menard case to do this." She added sweetly, "but you can write up the report if you want to."

Nick mockingly scowled at her as he walked through an open doorway into the bedroom. "So," Nick smiled to himself as he looked into the room, "this is where the magic happens."

"Don't bother Nick," Catherine snorted, "you won't find anything."

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><p>"So you say, you were driven home by Detective Monaghan shortly after nine pm, my question is, if your shift ends at eight and you're maxed out on overtime what on earth were you doing in this lab?" The cold eyes of Internal Affairs investigator Clark Newton focused on Greg's own.<p>

"I uh... I had a busy shift and I just dropped of..."

"So you were sleeping in the lab and working under fatigue? Do you realise that worker fatig..."

"Clark, Clark," Brass, who was stood beside Greg halted the investigator's accusations. "This is related to the enquiry concerning the death of Dirk Faversham not relating to the work effort of our CSIs."

"Captain Brass," Newton sneered. "I am merely trying to unravel some context into the situation and sleeping on the job does not qualify as a reasonable alibi."

_Sleeping on the job?_ Greg thought to himself, _how could he imply that someone who often put sixteen hours of their work day into protecting their county could essentially be a couch potato? _

"Actually Undersheriff Ecklie can vouch for that, it was he who actually sent for Detective Monaghan to take him home!" Brass spoke up. Despite the situation, having Brass on your side in an interrogation was always a great boost to morale.

"You know, this isn't the first time that dead bodies have had a way of finding their way into your life, is it?" Newton asked bluntly. Greg felt the hairs on his neck stand on end and a surge of anger begin to erupt from him like a catastrophic volcano.

"You know what, this is a waste of time," Greg snapped, rising from his seat. "You can't prove I did anything, you're just trying to cover the department's ass, like you did with Demetr..."

"Sit down Sanders," Newton barked at him. "Or I'll have you fired right now." Greg froze for a moment, shocked at the aggressive tone of the Internal Affairs Investigator.

"Just sit down Greg," Brass told him quietly as his cell phone began to ring. "Brass."

"Do you realise how much shit you got this department into Sanders with that?" He snarled referencing to the Demetrius James case. "Any defence lawyer will use this to seize a chance to question our investig..."

"This talk is over," Brass firmly told the man seated opposite who returned a look of utmost perplexion.

"What do you mean this talk is over?"

"Coroner's report shows the victim's time of death was around two am. Greg Sanders was assisting in a police stake out during those hours. Please refer to the appropriate paperwork for confirmation and so far we do not have enough evidence to hold Mr Sanders blah blah blah, come on Greg let's go."

Greg felt himself being whisked away by Brass and out of the door being closely followed by Newton, who was enraged of the abrupt closure of their conversation, shouting down remarks to the two of them to which Brass chose to ignore.

"Thanks Jim for..."

"It wasn't just me Greg," Brass told him before lowering his voice to a quiet but warning tone. "However in future I'd advise you to keep your cool with these things. Clark Newton may be a crap IA investigator but he's got a lot of influence with the superiors. Don't dig yourself into a pit."

Greg nodded and Brass patted his shoulder before walking away to talk to the still furious Internal Affairs investigator. As their shouting diminished, Greg quickly realised that although he was no longer a suspect. He couldn't go back to his house and he couldn't go back to his job and there was still a hidden menace out there playing their game and now, Greg felt more vulnerable than ever.

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><p><strong>AN: Well, I don't quite think this is what you were expecting but I can assure you that things will get pretty interesting from part two onwards. ;)**

**I'm sorry about the delay with posting this story up. I hope I can be forgiven though seeing as it's still the 12****th ****for some of you readers. Hope you enjoyed this chapter and continue to read on also I'd like to say a massive thanks to everyone who reviewed and favourited Blood Eagle, I really appreciate all your support with the series! **

**Part two will be posted sometime tomorrow evening. I know this probably doesn't quench your thirst for answers following a long three week wait but I can ensure you that you'll be getting some soon. :)**


	2. Part 2 of 4

"_I'm Melanie Hayworth from Channel Seven news bringing you a breaking story. Electoral candidate Dirk Faversham, notorious for his radical left-wing views was found murdered in an apartment complex last night. Details are currently sketchy but sources reveal a shocking revelation that the Faversham was found in the home of Greg Sanders, a member of the Las Vegas crime lab, who was involved in an affair in which he ran over a college student in the process of saving a man..."_

Melanie Hayworth was abruptly silenced as the news report was switched off by a tired looking Logan Grimmle, recently elected mayor of Las Vegas. He wearily turned his attention towards the two occupants of Catherine's office, Catherine herself and Ecklie. He poured himself a cup of coffee messily, only half of the hot water actually making it into the mug.

"Are you going to tell me what you're actually doing to keep the media off our asses?" He asked them both gruffly, taking a swig of his hastily-brewed coffee.

"CSI Sanders has been pulled off the case," Ecklie answered plainly, looking over at Catherine and hoping that she could elaborate his point.

"Anything else? I was gonna do that myself you know."

"We've processed the crime scene and the body is finishing up in autopsy as we speak," Ecklie continued although Grimmle didn't appear to show any further hints of satisfaction with their initial efforts.

"We found various prints at the scene which are currently being processed," Catherine spoke to the mayor, in a professional manner. "A/V is currently tracing a phone call which was made to CSI Sanders prior to discovering the body. The coroner has determined that the victim's TOD was two am yesterday, whilst CSI Sanders was on shift. We found pigs blood in the apartment which was used to what we think, taunt CSI Sanders."

"Taunt?" Grimmle asked, confused by the latest revelation. "What do you mean taunt?"

"We believe that CSI Sanders is being targeted by a serial killer," Ecklie replied.

"Serial killer?" Grimmle yelped in surprise causing both Catherine and Ecklie to take a step back. "Why the hell has nobody informed me of a serial killer? And why has nobody told me that Sanders is supposedly in danger?"

"Mayor Grimmle," Catherine spoke up over the mayor's booming voice. "These are revelations that have been made less than twenty-four hours ago, I myself was only informed when I got called onto shift today."

"Okay tell me about it, quick, before the media has a field day with it."

"The murder of Dirk Faversham is related to those of Joseph Huyt and Matthew Ellis," Ecklie explained to the mayor hurriedly. Huyt died over a month ago and Ellis was found dead yesterday morning. Both show signs of being killed in the same manner."

"The method in which they were killed was supposedly a ritual style of execution dating back to the Viking era... and Norway," Catherine informed the mayor who was becoming increasingly confused as the information was released to him.

"Norway?" He exclaimed, bewildered. "Okay, I'll just let you carry on with things. But I want this nutcase in. Fast. Then we can afford to let slip to the media." He downed the rest of his coffee and made his way out of the office. "Oh, and I want Sanders on guard until this case is wrapped up, this department's not losing any more CSIs."

"Why are the grumpy ones always our superiors?" Ecklie asked Catherine once the mayor was out of earshot.

"You know, he reminds me of you," Catherine told him; Ecklie gave her a sorrowful look, obviously slightly offended by her remark. "Years ago, I mean, you've gotten better now."

"Thanks for elaborating," he said sarcastically as the two walked out of the office into the lab area. "Did you get anything else from the scene then?"

"Surprisingly, yes," Catherine admitted. "As well as the prints which were found on the fridge door we found various hairs, a peculiar piece of trace from the victim's clothing and a couple of shoe impressions."

"Why is that surprising?"

"Nick said in the previous murders they found hardly any evidence at all, not a single piece. But now, we've got prints, trace, shoe impressions, hairs, possible epithelials..."

"Couldn't these belong to Greg?" Ecklie inquired.

"I reckon a lot of them will do, but we did find some size thirteen shoe impressions, Greg's a size twelve. Maybe the killer's getting sloppy?"

"Or maybe, the killer wants to be found."

* * *

><p>Nick walked into the prints lab cheerfully and stood by the doorway waiting for Mandy to notice him. Having not been able to detract her from her work he cleared his throat which prompted a mixed look of surprise and happiness to erupt on Mandy's face.<p>

"Hey," she cried out. "I got the results from all those prints you asked me to process. Twenty-seven in total, not quite a record."

Nick chuckled to himself and walked up to Mandy to retrieve the results from her outstretched hand, only for her to snatch them away just before he reached out to collect them. "Oh no," Nick shook his head. "You're not making me sing for them again."

"But you have a lovely voice," she smiled back at him cheerfully.

"Come on Mandy, this is a pretty big case," he replied impatiently. "We really can't afford to be wasting time."

"Fine, fine," she relented, handing over the results to Nick and commenting on them as he read them. "Nineteen of the prints came back to Greg. Three of the others were partials obtained from the fridge, came back unknown. The other five you collected from the door I got a full profile on and they are a match to the partials on the fridge."

"Good work Mandy."

"As always," she called back to him as he exited the lab.

Nick walked down the hallway of the crime lab to see if Hodges had finished analysing a trace sample that had been found on the body but he was intercepted by Detective Vega who looked a bit worse for the wear.

"What's going on, Nick?" He panted, having apparently made it back to the lab as fast as he could. "I've been told there's a third victim..."

"You've been told correct, Sam," Nick replied as the two of them sped down the corridor towards the trace lab. "Brass wants to see you as soon as possible, once we identify these guys we'll need to go in thick and fast."

"Understood," Vega nodded back to Nick simply and dashed off back towards the police department.

* * *

><p>"COD, like in the other two cases is exsanguination due to massive blood loss," Doc Robbins reported to Ray as he closed up the body of Dirk Faversham into one of the cooling vaults. "A distinct difference between this case and the other two is that the ribs were detached from the spine, instead of the sternum."<p>

"Why has the killer sudden changed his or her MO?" Ray inquired to the coroner.

"I don't know for sure but in this case, it appears that the traditional Blood Eagle procedure has been performed as opposed to the variation previously."

"So perhaps they wanted to make it appear to look more authentic?"

"Exactly so," Doc Robbins confirmed. He put down his notepad and picked out a chart, examining it. "I found another key dissimilarity with this body compared to the others. The lungs were missing."

"Was that part of the execution ritual as well?"

"Yes, in most cases, also I extracted trace within the wound tracts of the victim as well as the trace found on the victim's clothes in the external examination. I'd hazard a guess and say it's your standard table salt, which was added to the wounds to induce more pain."

"I was always told that the Vikings were savages yet I brushed those comments away," Ray grimaced slightly as details of the elaborate execution were revealed to him. "Now, I can see where they were coming from."

"Ritual killing or not, I'll still never understand why people think it's so necessary to inflict so much pain on someone simply because it's symbolic," Doc Robbins said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"What else did you find on the body?" Ray asked, changing the subject away from the gruesomeness of the killings.

"Everything else seemed pretty consistent with the other victims. The victim was tasered and likely kept under control using chloroform, preliminary tox came back with nothing suspicious."

"Chloroform metabolises quickly though, that makes sense," Ray concluded.

"Exactly. The incision wound tract was no more than 5 millimetres in diameter which suggests that some sort of box cutter was used to make the wounds. The fracture lines on the ribs radiate away from the initial break suggesting the ribs were separated peri-mortem."

"Weapon of choice?"

"A saw, most likely, I can't tell you exactly what type though, possibly a Stryker saw if they were aiming for a cleaner cut. Similar to what I've got," he lifted up the tool which sat on the table beside them. "I can tell you that in the Matthew Ellis case, I found clear hesitation marks around the ribs, I did not find such a mark this time."

"The killer knew what he was doing."

"Most probably. Let's just hope this is the last of them because I'm getting fed up of having to look at them again."

* * *

><p>Hodges was bent over a microscope in the Trace lab having been sent a sample which had been collected from the clothes of the dead body. He stifled a yawn, he was tired, this was supposed to be his day off and he'd been called in due to an 'emergency' which only turned out to be having to save Sanders' ass as usual. He turned a page over in the seven-hundred page encyclopaedia he had been using as a reference. It was entitled '<em>The Complete Collection of Mosses and Fungi' <em>and Hodges found himself groaning at the sheer number of species there was.

"You had any luck yet, Hodges?" Sara asked him, she was sat on the microscope next to him, having a look at the trace sample which Doc Robbins had acquired from the wound tract.

"So far, four hours, no wait," he glanced at his watch. "Five hours, and four-hundred and thirteen different species later and still no luck."

"That's a shame," she commented with actual little sympathy rising from her chair. "I'm all done."

"Why do I always get the difficult samples?" Hodges whined, Sara had been examining for less than fifteen minutes.

"Suck it up, David. Think of the overtime you'll be getting," she nudged him light-heartedly although Hodges maintained an understandably grumpy expression.

"Hey, any new results?" The cheerful voice of Nick Stokes could be heard talking over the general silence which usually embraced the Trace Lab. Hodges groaned at the prospect of having to explain that he hadn't identified his sample yet.

"Well the sample which Doc Robbins sent over was a mixture of sodium chloride and sodium silicoaluminate," he heard Sara explain to Nick. "Basically your standard table salt, basically what Doc Robbins expected."

"Okay, and how about your sample Hodges?"

"It'll get there faster if I don't have you CSIs hovering over my shoulders every ten minutes," he hissed to Nick irritably, not even glancing up from the microscope.

"Whoa, whoa, okay then, I'll come back later." Nick said backing away from him as he and Sara headed out of the lab.

"Has he taken his medication today?" Hodges overheard Sara asking Nick as they left.

"You might want a valium for him."

"I heard that!"

* * *

><p>"Come on Sleeping Beauty, wake up."<p>

Greg felt a pair, no, two pairs of hands shoving him. He opened his eyes dazed before he suddenly felt himself falling. _Eh?_ He hit the floor after a short drop and blinked a few times before realising he must have fallen asleep on the couch in front of the TV in the break room. He looked down and saw that he must have changed out of his orange overalls. _Thank god_, he thought to himself, _at least I don't feel like a criminal anymore_. He rubbed his eyes and opened them to see that Nick and Sara had quickly occupied the now vacant couch.

"Hey, what was that for?" He asked them both groggily, slowly stepping to his feet.

"We can't have you lounging around the lab all day," Nick explained to him. "It gives a rather unprofessional look of the crime lab."

"Yeah and where else can I go?" Greg answered bitterly. "I can't go home because my apartment's still being ripped apart, I can't do my job because I've been pulled off the case and I can't go outside because there're some crazy fascists out there who are trying to kill me."

"Actually, you can still go out so long as you're supervised by an LVPD officer," Sara pointed out to him.

"Great, so essentially I have a parole officer, you know they might as well lock me up, at least that'll increase my life expectancy."

Nick got off the couch and began fumbling around in his back pocket; he pulled out his wallet and brandished some money in front of Greg. "Look Greg," he handed the money to Greg. "Here's twenty bucks, go and get some breakfast, get some for your bodyguard to freshen you both up. Or if you don't want to go far, there's a Starbucks across the road."

"And another three round the corner," Sara remarked.

Greg opened his mouth to protest only Nick interrupted him. "Look, just go. Take Officer Highcliffe with you, you'll be in good hands. Ring us if you have to."

He paused for a moment and looked at the money in his hand before nodding and accepting the offer. "Thanks Nick," was all he said. Nick gave him a wink and went to retrieve his sandwich from the fridge.

Greg left the break room in search for Officer Highcliffe when he felt his cell phone buzz. He took it out and flipped it open and groaned when he saw that the message was from Amy Griffin. _What is with her obsession with me?_ He groaned as he bitterly regretted the day he had given her his number, putting the growing concern in the back of his mind that maybe there was a more sinister reason as to why she was after him. _She had called me Hojem_, he thought before shaking his negative thoughts away, presuming that being a paramedic she had somehow stumbled across his name in some sort of record.

To his surprise, he saw that there were actually two messages, and Amy Griffin was not the sender of the second message. _One_ _new message from Peter Grimsrund? _A moment of excitement hit him, maybe he'd found out who may have been involved, maybe he had more information, but this excitement dwindled as he realised that he couldn't have any involvement with the case at all. Nevertheless, curiosity got the better of him and he opened the message:

"_I've got some interesting information regarding the death of your grandfather; I'll be at the lab in half an hour." _

Greg felt his throat tighten; he had been so fixated on the Blood Eagle murders that he hadn't even stopped to think about his grandfather. A sudden wave of panic overcame him as he thought what might happen if his co-workers or worse, Ecklie, found him conversing with an advisor relating to the case he wasn't allowed to work on. He quickly grabbed his phone and texted back:

"_I'm off-duty; meet me outside the Starbucks opposite the lab."_

He headed to PD to search for Officer Highcliffe, he hadn't even reached the door when he'd already received a reply reading:

"_Which Starbucks opposite the lab?"_

* * *

><p>Catherine was walking back towards her office when she heard her name being called out to her and footsteps running up behind her. She sighed, assuming it was Ecklie or Grimmle reminding her how important it was for her to catch the killer. The last forty-eight hours had been manic and even with the load of the Juan Menard case being lifted from her shoulders; the next forty-eight could prove to be even more stressful.<p>

She turned around and came face to face with, to her surprise, Archie from A/V. He looked flustered and it had been apparent he had been looking for her for a while. "I had a look at Greg's phone records including the last caller before he discovered the body."

"What did you find?" Catherine asked eagerly.

"It was the first time this caller had called Greg's home. I managed to trace the number but unfortunately it's come back to a disposable cell phone. Probably lying in a bin in Vegas somewhere."

"Well that implies that whoever phoned him somehow knew him pretty well, or managed to find his number somewhere," Catherine concluded. "But otherwise that's a dead end then."

"Sorry it couldn't be any more use to you." He said beginning to turn away.

"Actually Archie," Catherine called out to him. "Did you get the new surveillance footage?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well Brass managed to seize some footage from the apartment block from the last twenty-four hours, see if you can get anything off that."

"Okay boss."

* * *

><p>Greg sat on a bench which overlooked the side of the road outside the coffee shop he'd arranged to meet Peter Grimsrund. His 'bodyguard', Officer Highcliffe sat next to him, obeying orders to ensure Greg wasn't in any danger. The sun was beginning to peek up from behind the dominating towers of the Las Vegas hotels, but the street was still considerably empty.<p>

Greg saw a car pull up to the pavement near to where they sat; he didn't bother to identify it as he saw Peter step out of the driver's side. "Greg," Peter called out to him with delight, coming up to him and shaking his hand. "Glad to see you're alright, I heard what happened on the news."

"Yeah," Greg said sadly, accepting the Norwegian's handshake. "You know, I'm not supposed to be discussing the case, I've been pulled off it."

"Well I did a bit of research and found something I thought you might be interested in," Peter replied, pulling out what looked to be a large photo album. Greg could tell it had only been touched again recently, it was still showing traces of dust along the sides. "Besides, this isn't related to your case at all."

"Urrm..." Officer Highcliffe piped up. "I feel like I'm intruding somewhat, you want me to get us some coffee?" Greg gave him a look of concern and he quickly added, "oh don't worry, you're still in my eye line and I won't be gone long."

"Okay then, get me something strong please," Greg caved.

"And you, sir?" Highcliffe politely asked Peter.

"Oh oh-errm, just a Hot Chocolate will do me great thanks," Peter responded.

"So what were you going to tell me then?" Greg asked Peter curiously who was busy watching Highcliffe walk into the coffee shop.

"Oh, sorry," Peter fumbled, concentrating himself back on what he was about to tell Greg. "Anyway, as I told you when you came down to LA, your grandfather represented the Norwegian resistance during the Nazi occupation of Norway." Greg nodded, remembering back to the talk they had had at Papa Olaf's funeral. "What I thought you'd find interesting to know is I recently found a picture of him in London during the Second World War."

He opened the photo album and sure enough, Greg could see a younger Papa Olaf smiling at the camera, surrounded by seven other men standing outside a quintessentially British pub. "Who were the others?" Greg asked Peter, as his fascination of his grandfather's heritage increased.

"Well they were..." Peter began only to find himself being interrupted by Highcliffe who had poked his head out of the coffee shop.

"Tall or extra tall?" He shouted across to the two men from the door.

"Oh, any will do," Greg replied back quickly, eager to find out more about Papa Olaf being in London. "Sorry, what were you going to say?"

"Well, I reckon they were all fellow member of errm, the resistance stationed in Britain, who were trying to liberate Norway at the time," Greg noticed Peter's uncertainty increasing and his hands beginning to shake. "But you'll have to speak to someone else about it."

"Someone else?" Greg inquired, confused as to what Peter was talking about. "Peter, are you alright?"

"Actually, no," Peter replied feverishly.

"What's up?" Greg asked, beginning to worry about Peter's behaviour.

"I can't say."

"No, go on."

"Look Greg," Peter said shakily. "I'm really, really sorry."

Before Greg had time to think of a response he felt a sharp intense pain emit from his upper shoulder. He unknowingly let out a yelp of both surprise and pain and felt himself falling to the sidewalk. He quickly realised that he was completely immobilised and felt his hands being restrained. _Oh god_, he thought to himself, trying to distract himself from the pain, _I'm such an idiot_.

Within seconds he felt himself being flung into the back of Peter's car, although it appeared to be a bit of a struggle for Peter, Greg paid little attention, he was focused on trying to wriggle himself out of his invisible restraint. As the door behind slammed shut and the engine started, he knew his death warrant had been signed.

When the car began to move, he knew he was being taken to his execution.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I am really, really, REALLY sorry about the lateness of this update. Jetlag hit me harder than I anticipated and an unexpected trip this weekend left me unable to update so I'm sorry for keeping all you patient readers waiting even longer! I promise I'll try and get the next update done ASAP (hopefully by tomorrow) but I've had a pretty stressful weekend!**

**Hope you all haven't lost faith in me! Keep the reviews and comments coming in everyone! Thanks to everyone who has done so so far!**


	3. Part 3 of 4

Hodges cried out with happiness and glee as he turned to page six-hundred and thirty-one having finally acquired a match between the textbook and the sample he had been given. With a satisfied smirk he quickly bookmarked the page, picked up the encyclopaedia and dashed off towards Catherine's office only to run into Nick on the way there.

"Whoa, easy there Hodges," Nick picked himself up the floor pointing to the sign mounted on the wall which exclaimed in large letters, '_NO RUNNING IN THE LAB_.' "You had any luck with that sample yet?"

Hodges scowled, he didn't want to share the information with Nick, or Sara for that matter, and he'd been on the way to tell the _lead_ investigator the newly accessible information but unfortunately for him he had no choice. He flicked back to page six-hundred and thirty-one and explained his findings. "The mold which was extracted from the victim's clothing was a species of _Stachybotrys Chartarum_, most commonly known as black mold."

"Good job Hodges," Nick congratulated him before asking, "what exactly does that tell us by the way?"

"Well this type of mold commonly inhabits building materials which are rich in cellulose and can also grow on fungi which have infested buildings which have been prone to water damage and poor air quality."

"Okay then, we've previously established that the victims were probably not killed in the van, but most likely in an undisclosed location."

"Right," Hodges nodded, pretending to be engaged into the conversation.

"So it's highly likely that our primary crime scene is an abandoned building, which has been heavily damaged by water. Heavy rain? Flash flooding possibly?"

"I can't answer that for sure, but one other thing you might want to know about this mold. Long exposure to it can result in chronic fatigue, headaches, irritation to the eyes and all sorts of nasty symptoms."

"So maybe our killer could be feeling a bit under the weather then."

"As I've said though, it's all dependant on whether the killer has had long periods of exposure to the mold."

"Okay, pass on the new information to Catherine and I'll go and see if we've got anything from DN..." Nick began speaking before Catherine entered the room thereby silencing Hodges' requirement to speak with her.

"What new information?" She asked immediately, not even starting their conversation with a simple '_hey there_.'

Hodges opened his mouth to talk only to find Nick speaking over the top of him. "Hodges determined the sample found on the victim's clothing to be black mold..."

"Also known as _Stachybotrys Chartarum_," Hodges piped up, eager to get his two cents worth of the credit.

"Anyway," Nick continued. "The mold supposedly develops in buildings which have been heavily damaged by water which contain materials rich with cellulose."

"Well anywhere like that would be virtually uninhabitable," Catherine deduced. "An ideal place to hide out anyway."

"Definitely so," Hodges rambled on. "As long exposure to the mold can induce symptoms such as chronic fatigue, headaches, irritation to the eyes, sneezing, rashes, chronic coughi..."

"Okay Hodges, I get the picture," Catherine silenced his jittering and he pulled another sour face. "Nick, go and have a look into any abandoned apartments or houses in the Las Vegas area which have suffered serious amounts of flooding. The valley around Mount Charleston might be a good place to start."

Hodges saw Nick nod and begin to head out the door only for the door to be flung open before he'd even got close to it. Jim Brass dashed into the room with a look of both anger and anxiety etched upon his face.

"We need to up our game," Brass said worriedly. "Sanders is missing."

* * *

><p>"Tell me what happened when you left the lab," Brass asked Officer Highcliffe, who sat rather uncomfortably in the seat opposite him.<p>

"Please... please, you can't fire me; I swear I was only gone less th..." Highcliffe began to stutter nervously.

"That's not up for me to decide, just answer the question," Brass told him with an air of impatience in his voice. "What happened when you left the lab?"

"Okay, okay," Highcliffe composed himself. "He told me he wanted to meet someone, just at the Starbucks across the street, oh and it wasn't regarding the case by the way," he quickly added.

"Who?"

"I don't know who he was, but he seemed to know Sanders quite well, definitely not around from these parts, I couldn't tell what the accent was."

"What did he look like?" Brass asked him, having calmed down since his initial panic.

"Urrm... some guy, looked to be in his late fifties, early sixties, mop of white hair. Oh and he had glasses too," Highcliffe responded, trying to remember what Peter Grimsrund looked like.

Nick, Catherine and Ray looked on in the observation room; all three of them had been possessed into a stunned silence on hearing that their co-worker, their friend was in serious danger. Ray took his phone away from his ear and snapped it shut, shaking his head.

"I've called his cell three times," he told Nick and Catherine who had stood around him, hoping for some good news. "It's ringing but nobody's picking it up."

"I think I know who Greg was meeting," Nick deduced, picking up on Officer Highcliffe's description of the man. Catherine and Ray both looked at him, demanding him to reiterate "He came to the lab last night; Greg invited him over for some expert opinion on the case. He recognised the Blood Eagle and told us a bit about the suspected perpetrators. I think he's a family friend or something but I don't see why he would be behind all these murders."

The three of them watched on as the questioning of Highcliffe continued, Brass having asked him to describe the car which Peter Grimsrund had driven to the location in however the three CSIs hadn't heard the response in their efforts to identify who Greg had been meeting.

"What happened after this guy arrived at the meeting point?" Brass asked the officer.

"The two of them started talking, the guy pulled out some sort of photo album and started talking about the first page," Highcliffe began explaining the events which followed. "I felt like I was intruding a bit so I backed off a little to let them have a little privacy," Brass looked at him suspiciously. "Not, like, couple of blocks, but just out of earshot."

"Okay, now what happened next?"

"I offered to get them some coffee..."

"You what?" Brass asked in alarm.

"I thought it would be okay, they were sat right outside the shop, I could see them through the window and I thought I'd only be gone a few minutes," Highcliffe hurriedly replied, alarmed by the increasingly aggressive tone in Brass' interviewing. "I even went out to ask what sized drinks they wanted, I literally had my back turned for just a minute whilst I placed the orders. When I came back out with the coffee, they were gone."

"Gone?"

"Well, they were no longer sat on the bench and the car wasn't there anymore, I feared for the worst and immediately followed protocol and came back and informed you."

"There's no point banging on about protocol having just violated it. You were given a _simple_ task. Keep _both_ eyes on CSI Sanders. Now, he's missing, how do you think that's gonna look?"

"Urrm... very bad?" Highcliffe almost whimpered a reply. There was a momentary silence between the two of them. "So, what's going to happen now?"

"You had better get hoping that Sanders is still alive for a start," Brass retorted and briskly made his way out of the interrogation room. He caught the eye of the three CSIs and headed in their direction. "I'm not one to criticise the department but we really have got some morons working for us."

"I still don't understand what on earth Greg was doing out the lab anyway?" Catherine asked rhetorically.

"Good point," Ray spoke up. "If he wasn't out there in the first place and had stayed put in the lab, none of this would have happened."

Nick squirmed uncomfortably having remembered that he had suggested to Greg to go out and get himself breakfast and a breath of fresh air_. Cut it out Nick, it's not your fault some moronic officer can't do their job_, the voice inside his head told himself.

"Do we have anything on this guy Greg was supposedly meeting?" Brass asked.

"Nick reckons he was a family friend of Greg," Catherine answered.

"He came in to the lab yesterday and talked to us a bit about the Blood Eagle, and came up with the idea that this National Gathering of fascists might be behind these killings," Nick elaborated. "His name was Peter... Grimsrund, I think."

"You reckon this Peter Grimsrund guy could be capable of doing all of this by himself?" Brass asked them. "And, be able to simply snatch Greg off the streets like that?"

"Well, Greg ain't exactly Cassius Clay," Nick said light-heartedly. "But he should have been easily able to overpower this guy, which makes me wonder whether there are more people involved."

"Doc Robbins mentioned in the autopsy report that the previous two victims had been stunned prior to death," Ray pointed out. "Matthew Ellis, the second victim was a pretty big guy. With the element of surprise on his hand, this Peter guy could easily stun Greg, drag him into the vehicle and drive off in a matter of seconds."

"There's _got_ to be more than one guy involved," Catherine said. "There's no way that a scheme as elaborate as this could all be conducted by just one man. Particularly one who physically, doesn't appear to be able to work this vigilante style."

"Right, I'll get some detectives to delve into this Peter Grimsrund guy," Brass sprang into action. "I'll let you guys know if we find anything."

"Okay then," Catherine replied. She turned towards Nick and Ray. "Our best bet is to go back to the first three victims, see if we notice anything peculiar which stands out. We've still got surveillance footage to come from A/V and Sara's with Selma in DNA having a look at hairs. If the worst comes to the worst, we'll be back at the scene again."

"How long do you reckon we've got?" Ray asked Nick the inevitable and frightening question.

"I... erm, don't know," Nick replied, not wanting to think of the worst. "But whoever's been doing this has been playing a game all this time. They'll want Greg alive... for a while, anyway."

* * *

><p>The car suddenly came to an abrupt stop. Greg, who hadn't been strapped in felt himself falling onto the floor of the car as his momentum carried on. He had no idea how long they had been travelling for as his spatial awareness had been compromised by the journey, a bag had been placed over his head, presumably so he had no idea where he was going. Greg knew that the effects of the stun gun had worn off now as he was able to wiggle his fingers and toes now, however ultimately he was still incapacitated by the ropes which had restrained his wrists.<p>

The door of the car opened and he felt Peter hauling him out of the car. _Was this it_, he thought to himself. _Had they arrived at the scaffold? _He was suddenly dropped on the ground; this suggested to him that Peter was still alone at this point. Greg figured he could escape now, but he realised he wouldn't be able to get very far in his position.

He heard a door slide open. _A van perhaps_? Once more, he felt his body being dragged to a new vehicle. Within moments he found himself making contact with the floor of another vehicle. He heard the door slam behind him and became fully aware of his sense of smell. Wherever he was, it stank, and the smell was very familiar to Greg. Decomp.

He heard what he presumed to be Peter get in the driver's side. As he was imprisoned in the back of Peter's car he had thought for a long time. _Why, Peter? Why have you got yourself involved with such heinous crimes?_ However, throughout the journey, he'd been able to hear Peter's heavy breathing throughout, he felt the car violently swerve left and right at times and the words Peter had said to him before he had been stunned, "_I'm really, really sorry_" suggested that maybe, he wasn't involved, not directly anyway.

The new vehicle remained stationary for a while in an eerie silence. Greg himself couldn't speak due to the fact he had been gagged as well however this silence was broken with Peter speaking. Nobody replied to him, but he wasn't talking to himself, Greg figured he was on the phone. He was speaking in Norwegian but Greg got the general gist of the conversation as he mentally translated it.

"Yes... yes, I've got him... just off Telephone Canyon Road... okay... I'll be there shortly." Peter spoke nervously and slowly, which supported the possibility that maybe there was something else involved which he'd never considered. Greg heard Peter sigh heavily and put the phone down, but at the same time, he could also hear the sound of someone tapping three numbers onto what he assumed to be a different phone.

"Hello, I think I've just seen a kidnapping... on the intersection of Cheyenne and Jones... the guy was tall, about six foot, early-thirties, thick, sandy blonde hair with spikes... yeah I got the vehicle and plate as well, it was a white GMC Savana, plates Nevada, Five, Five, Four, S, G, H... it headed west along Cheyenne, turned northwards onto the US Ninety-five."

The phone was slammed down and Greg felt the engine roar to life and all of a sudden, there seemed to be a way out. From what Peter had just said, he'd just reported his own kidnapping. Whilst it gave him an inkling of hope, Greg still feared that the worst for him, and possibly Peter was still to come from this ordeal.

* * *

><p>"Hey," Sara called out to Selma cheerfully, hiding her anxiety for Greg's safe-being.<p>

"Howdy," Selma replied in her usual enthusiastic manner. "I expect you're hoping for some results from those hairs that were sent over to me."

"Hoping for?" Sara asked. "That doesn't sound promising."

"I'm afraid I got zilch. Big, fat, nothing. The hairs you sent me, none of them had skin tags so it can be assumed they were naturally shed, and I wouldn't be surprised if all of them belonged to Greg."

"Okay, thanks for trying though," Sara called back to her as she left. She headed around to the break room but saw that nobody was occupying it; she noticed that they were all eagerly crowded around in the A/V lab and assumed that Archie had managed to get a breakthrough. She walked through the doorway and exclaiming, "hey, why wasn't I invited to the party?"

"Hold on a moment," Archie said, scanning through the footage one frame at a time. "Flimsy surveillance only takes an image every ten seconds but... here!"

Archie stopped the surveillance at a frame revealing two figures two male figures, neither represented Peter Grimsrund and both of whom were carrying a bag which distinctly resembled the body of Dirk Faversham. One of the men was facing away from the camera, although he sported a mop of frizzy, dark coloured hair. The man closest to the camera however was looking directly at it; he was a tall man, who appeared to be balding who had an iconic silver goatee. His cold eyes glared directly back at the CSIs watching which chilled many of them who were even standing around merely observing. He also had his middle finger pointed up at the camera.

From that frame, it had become apparent. They were playing a game all along, and quite frankly, their capture was the lowest of their concerns.

"Well, that confirms our theory," Nick spoke up. "There's more than one of them."

"But what exactly does Peter Grimsrund have to do with this?" Ray asked. "From what I've heard about him, he doesn't seem to fit in with this at all?"

"Maybe it's just a disguise?" Sara suggested.

The atmosphere of the room was once again changed abruptly as Detectives Vega and Vartann dashed into the room.

"We've got a new lead," Vega said simply.

Vartann threw a USB to Archie who, despite not expecting it, was skilfully able to catch it. "Anonymous nine-one-one caller phoned in about five minutes ago reported a kidnapping in North Las Vegas, description of the victim matches Greg."

"Hold on a minute," Catherine spoke up. "Greg was taken from outside this lab; we're nowhere near North Las Vegas."

"Beats me," Vega said simply. "However the caller also reported the vehicle and the plate number as well, you might want to check that out."

"Apparently the kidnappers went North on US ninety-five," Vartann added.

Realising that this could potentially be a huge lead, Catherine once again stepped up to her supervisor role. "Okay, Archie and Ray, you analyse the nine-one-one tape. Nick, you have a look at the vehicle and Sara, north on US ninety-five is the way to Mount Charleston, I want you to see if you can find any reports on buildings in that location which have been subjected to large amounts of water damage, possibly from flash floods."

Everyone who was assigned a role dutifully obeyed orders and immediately got down to what they were supposed to. Vartann looked across at Catherine, clearly impressed with her sudden explosion of leadership. He walked up to her and whispered into her ear, "wow, nice job!"

"Thanks," she replied before smiling cheekily. "Now, shouldn't you be getting back to yours?"

* * *

><p>Greg was aware that they had long left Vegas now as he felt the vehicle manoeuvre along windier roads and they encountered far less traffic lights. After what seemed like an eternity of travelling, he finally realised the vehicle had slowed down to a halt. During that time he had wondered if everyone back at the lab knew that he had gone, or whether they would be looking for him. The glimmer of hope inside his head told him they were, and that he would be back in Vegas in no time. They had found Nick, buried six feet under, they had found Sara, lost in the desert, he had escaped death twice and he was more than ready to do it for a third time.<p>

He heard the van door slide forcefully open and a pair of hands seized his shoulders roughly. Yes, they were definitely here now. He heard a voice call out, "come on, you too old man." The voice had an unmistakably Norwegian accent. He heard the sound of the driver's door opening and closing as Peter followed behind them. "You might want to watch where you walk," the same voice hissed.

Greg had no clue where he was going but after walking about a hundred paces, he felt himself guided up a set of creaky stairs and through a front door. The stench was overwhelming, it was clear that wherever they were had lain in disrepair for a long time. He felt butterflies clench his stomach as he was silently ushered up a staircase to a second floor. Whoever was guiding him was doing so ever so deliberately, making sure that Greg stepped where he was supposed to.

After a short walk, he realised the pace had quickened and he was suddenly flung across the room. Another set of hands stopped his momentum, although they didn't feel warm and welcoming at all and within seconds he felt himself forced upon a chair. His arms were untied but their freedom was short lived as he felt the texture of duct tape licking his wrists and his ankles.

"Let there be light," a voice emitted, Greg felt his stomach clench even further as he recognised this voice as the cold voice which had spoken to him on the phone. In a swift movement, the bag was lifted off his head and the gag was just as quickly removed. "Good morning Hojem, and welcome to my humble abode."

"It's nice," Greg commented sarcastically. Looking around, nice was probably the poor choice of word to describe the room. Wooden cabinets had rotted away, the drapes which enclosed the room in darkness had clear holes in them and the floorboards looked as if they might give way at any moment. "I've waited just as long as you have to be acquainted," Greg continued, hoping that somehow these words may delay his death sentence.

"A long time indeed," the balding man with the cold eyes spoke. "But I hope you don't mind waiting a little longer. Your dear friend Peter and I have some unfinished business." He turned to Peter, who was stood off to one side of the room. "So Peter, what is it you want in return for Hojem here?

"Let my family go," Peter growled bitterly and with deliberation.

"How unexpected, Linden, let them go."

The balding man looked at what Greg realised to be the man, tall and extremely muscular, standing behind him, who moved over to where the drapes were located. He pulled them open, letting the glorious Nevada sunlight into the room through the remains of a window. The sunlight was blocked by two figures, a woman who looked to be in here early thirties, and a small girl who couldn't have been more than ten, who were also tied to chairs, gagged and quivering with fear.

At first it looked as if Linden was going to untie the two females, but to the horror of Greg and Peter, he simply toppled the chairs over, through the opening where the window once was. Even through the gags, their muffled screams could be heard as they plummeted two stories, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

"No!" Peter yelled, his look changing from horror to rage. "You said you'd let them go!"

"I did let them go," the balding man chuckled. "But it was you who failed to specify, when, where and in what manner!"

"You... bastard!" Peter cried, pulling out a pistol which lay hidden in his back pocket. A further sense of dread gripped Greg; he wasn't sure whether Peter knew what he was doing.

"Peter," he cried out. "Put the gun..."

A loud shot cut Greg off from finishing his sentence, but to his dismay, the shot came from a frizzy haired accomplice who stood at the side of the room. Peter let out a yelp and fell to the ground in a bloody heap. The shot appeared not to be fatal... yet, but Peter was well and truly out of action. Greg opened his mouth to yell out in horror but found no such sound coming out of it. The balding man casually kicked Peter's fallen pistol away whilst Linden dragged Peter to one side.

"Well, that didn't quite go as planned," the balding man said in a cruelly light-hearted manner. "But let's move on to the main agenda Hojem."

Greg looked back at the balding man completely unenthused and still in a state of shock.

"Oh, how rude of me, I haven't introduced myself," the man continued talking in a sickly sweet tone. "My name is Erlen Strasse, and I'll be the last person, you ever lay your eyes on."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The slightly evil side of me is definitely coming out in this story!**

**Hope you enjoyed it! I aim to get the final part of this story up sometime tomorrow, but if it isn't, it will definitely be Friday. (Thursday is kind of an important day for me.) Your reviews and comments are always welcome!**


	4. Part 4 of 4

**A/N: Okay, I'm sorry this is incredibly late! It's been one heck of a week so I'd really like to dedicate this to you patient readers who've willingly (I presume) been holding up for me!**

* * *

><p>The AV lab back at the Crime Lab had been a hub of both maniacal and vibrant activity in the immediate minutes which followed the news that a suspicious nine-one-one call had appeared to point towards Greg's sudden disappearance. Catherine oversaw as Archie and Ray poured over the tape with intense scrutiny. Doc Robbins had even gotten himself involved, it was otherwise a quiet day in the morgue and he too was eager to do anything to help find their colleague.

They were particularly interested with the section which suggested that the pursuit vehicle had headed north on the US ninety-five road and had accessed some traffic cameras along that stretch of road. Sure enough, the white GMC Savana bearing the specified number plates could be clearly seen even on these cameras with no enhancement required by Archie.

"Well, this implies that our van and possible kidnapping are genuine," Ray concluded as they observed the footage with a glimmer of hope that they were getting close to finding him.

"Yes, but how do we know whether Greg was in the van?" Catherine asked. "I mean, it could be something to lure us away from his actual location."

"I'm afraid I can't enhance the imagery any further to see who's in the van," Archie said with regret.

"Well the speaker from the nine-one-one tape sounds an awful lot like Peter Grimsrund," Doc Robbins spoke up. "Having been enlightened by him for a couple of hours yesterday, that voice is easily recognisable."

"But Peter Grimsrund is our suspect, he was the person who was with Greg when he disappeared," Ray pointed out, overwhelmingly confused by the situation. "How do we know it's not him who's been behind this all this time?"

"I don't think it was him," sounded a familiar Texan voice as Nick strolled into the A/V lab, grinning sheepishly having obviously acquired valuable information which would help them locate Greg.

"Spit it out then," Catherine urged, reminding him that they were running out of time.

"Okay, okay," he responded. "I ran the plates that our nine-one-one caller took, came back to a Mr Erlen Strasse. He has no record, but he was nice enough to leave us his photo." Nick slammed down a document on the table revealing Erlen Strasse to be the balding man with the cold eyes, who was spotted swearing at the surveillance camera in Greg's apartment block.

"I think you may just have identified our serial killer," Catherine confirmed with the team.

"Wait, I've got more. I looked up Peter Grimsrund, and I got something on this Norwegian database. He's an NIS agent; he works for the Norwegian Intelligence Service."

"That, I can confirm," Brass said as he walked in and joined the team. "The director of the NIS just got in contact with Ecklie, apparently Mr Grimsrund was sent from Norway to investigate possible fascist emergence in the US. They lost contact with him yesterday and Vegas was his last known co-ordinates."

"Great, so now we've got a CSI and an NIS agent in trouble now, do you reckon it's time to call in the Feds?" Catherine asked defectively.

"Absolutely not," Brass responded quickly. "By the time they get their asses into gear, Sanders will have been carved up like a Thanksgiving dinner. I'll get a SWAT team and some ambulances ready but I'm gonna need a location ASAP!"

"And I think I just got you one!" Sara hurried in gleefully; as she extracted a file she had created with her research. "I looked up any events of catastrophic flooding in the Mount Charleston area but most flooding events appear to have been successfully managed, bar one property." She flicked through the notebook and opened it on a page where an old rickety two-story house which stood abandoned and derelict against a lonely desert landscape. "Flash flooding event, May two thousand and seven, I sure remember that storm. The house was completely waterlogged, the damage was too large and the house was abandoned, that gives it ample time to develop the black mold Hodges analysed."

"You sure this is the only case?" Nick asked her.

"A hundred percent positive," Sara replied, "I reckon this is our crime scene."

"Well, it's better than nothing," Brass grabbed the file and picked up his radio. "This is Brass, proceed to Telephone Canyon Road. It'll be the only house you see."

* * *

><p>Greg felt himself begin to sweat uncontrollably as Strasse slowly walked towards him and Greg tried in vain to free himself from the chair he was restrained on. He tried to look away from Peter who was still spluttering and slowly bleeding out. Strasse brandished a blade, a small blade, a boxcutter, Greg felt himself go cold as he could make out the glistening blood stains which lined the minute instrument. He heard a deafening whirring sound behind him, as Linden started to rev up the saw which had been used to perform the previous executions.<p>

_They're on their way_, he told himself, _they'll get the nine-one-one call; they'll come and find me_. The problem was, when they would find him, Greg knew he had to stall them, but he also had it in his mind that Strasse would keep him alive as long as possible. That would be more fun and it was then, that Greg knew his only chance of survival, was to join in with the game himself.

"What would you get from this?" He asked Strasse, directly looking into his cold eyes. "What gain would you, or the National Gathering gain from killing me?"

The whirring of the saw subsided and Strasse himself paused, thinking of the best way to respond to his hostage's question. "So, it seems that Peter's already given you some lessons," he began to talk slowly, starting to circle Greg, who lay trapped in his spider's web. "I can assure you Hojem, your death will be a monumental achievement to all who support the National Gathering, or to use its correct term, the Nasjonal Samling."

"Oh yeah," Greg laughed heart-heartedly. "How could I forget I'm an enemy to the party?"

"Not just you, your entire family," Linden snarled as he clamped a sweaty hand on Greg's left shoulder.

"Your grandfather appeared to be proud of you," Strasse whispered to Greg sinisterly. Despite having his wrists restrained, Greg still had the power to clench his fists angrily as Strasse brought up the subject of Papa Olaf. "Having kept a close eye on him in the weeks leading up to his death, I learnt a lot about him, I wonder how much he told you about his past life."

"I know he fought for Norway's freedom in the war," Greg replied confidently.

"Oh is that what he told you?" Strasse sneered. "It looks like he missed a chunk of timeline there."

"What do you mean?" Greg asked, a look of confusion appearing on his face. Strasse began to smile coldly as he began to gain the upper hand, crouching down in front of Greg so their faces were just centimetres apart.

"How about I tell you a story about my family? My father was just like your grandfather, he fought in the war for Norway..."

"For Norway's occupation probably," Greg retorted.

"To restore Norway to its former glory," Strasse spoke loudly over Greg, continuing his story. "He spent a lot of the war in London, secretly recruiting more officers for the Nasjonal Samling. Of course, my father was a great man, but he couldn't succeed at his mission by himself, which is why there were others with him. And I thought you'd like to know about a particular, how should I put it... colleague of my father." Greg squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, partly out of anxiety but also in a vain attempt to loosen his restraints. "Now what was his name?" Strasse asked himself rhetorically. "Oh I remember it, his name was Olaf Hojem."

"You're lying!" Greg snapped back at him causing the four men who surrounded him to start laughing mockingly. "Papa Olaf was not one of your lot!"

"I understand this may be something hard to comprehend about someone you idolise, but let me ask you Hojem, when did your grandfather move to America?"

Greg had to think about the question for a moment, he'd heard the story of Papa Olaf's emigration to America many times before, and it was only then that he truly considered the date. "Nineteen forty-six," he replied, having thought about it for a while. "After he got my grandmother pregnant before they were married, he didn't choose to go."

The men around him started to cackle again and Greg could feel his blood begin to boil as he once more wriggled his wrists and ankles attempting to be released from his prison of duct tape. After about thirty seconds Strasse was able to compose himself and he continued to speak to Greg coolly. "You honestly believed you could get kicked out a country for pre-marital pregnancy? I thought you CSIs were meant to be smart. Well Norway for some reason didn't embrace our ideas, in fact, they wanted nothing to do with us nationalists, and we were exiled from Norway after the war, my father and your grandfath..."

"No, Papa Olaf was not a fascist!" Greg yelled at Strasse, managing to inflict a flinch upon his foe. Strasse gestured to the curly haired man who stood in the corner who handed over a large book. No, it wasn't a book, it was the photo album, the one Peter had shown him outside the Starbucks. Strasse opened the album to the first photo, one that he'd already seen that night, he positioned the album in front of Greg.

"Read, who this is," Strasse said quietly pointing at a man who stood next to Papa Olaf holding his arm round his shoulder. He was a man with blonde hair, who looked slightly older than Papa Olaf, sporting a beard and rather shallow eyes.

Greg cast his eyes down to the bottom of the page where it named each member of the photo. His felt his heart tie itself in a knot when he read the name. _Erik Strasse_.

* * *

><p>The still calm of a Saturday morning was disrupted by a forewarning sound. The sound of sirens. A convoy of police cars, ambulances and Denalis roared along State Road one-fifty-seven road seamlessly passing the unaware traffic which was distributed sparsely on the road to Mount Charleston.<p>

The convoy was lead by Captain Jim Brass, who sped along roughly sixty feet in front of the other vehicles. Brass felt particularly anxious about what they could find at the house. At the very best, they'd find Greg alive, they'd bring in the kidnappers and the case could be closed there and then. At the very worst, there could be no trace at all, a dead end, and Greg would die, if he hadn't been killed already. Brass shook that thought from his mind, by his logic, they were no more than twenty-five minutes behind the GMC Savana and Brass felt confident that his next shift wouldn't be investigating the death of one of his colleagues.

He glanced in the interior mirror, Officer Mitchell and Officer Akers were close behind and he could make out an ambulance behind them. Brass couldn't help but think he was partly responsible, his department had ultimately failed to stop this, if anything he could be facing just as much criticism as Officer Highcliffe should this go wrong.

He glanced down at the Sat Nav he'd installed. Estimated TOA, five minutes. Although the pedal was firmly on the floor, Brass felt himself inputting even more power into the vehicle as the speedometer once more began to climb back up to the hundreds.

* * *

><p>Thoughts of disbelief began to flash through Greg's mind as he sat in the chair awaiting his fate, his captors stood around him laughing and jeering at him. All those years he'd idolised his grandfather and it turned out, he was one of them, a traitor to his heritage. <em>Hold on, traitor?<em> Greg remembered back to the many letters he'd been sent, recalling how they called _him_ a traitor to the Norwegian people. That _he_ should be punished for his crimes. Something didn't add up, if Papa Olaf was part of the National Gathering, why would they kill him?

"Any last words, Hojem?" Strasse sneered, deciding that it was finally time to begin his execution. To Strasse's surprise, instead of quivering away in fear, Greg began to smirk.

"He turned you in, didn't he," Greg replied.

"What?"

"Olaf Hojem, he wasn't part of National Gathering..."

"Nasjonal Samling," Strasse hissed.

"Whatever," Greg shugged. "He set you up, you know, I think you might have missed a big chunk of that timeline yourself. You even told me yourself; in the letters you sent to my work, and my home, that I was a traitor to the Norwegian people."

"Is it not unjust, that traitors get to live a happy life, a new life in America, and the rest have to rot in a prison cell for twenty-one years?" Strasse began to raise his voice.

"It was the traitors who rotted in prison," Greg corrected Strasse. "The ones who thought they could make their country conform to the crap you believe, you told me yourself, Norway never accepted the views of the Nasjon..."

"My father smiled down upon me, the day I spiked Olaf Hojem's drink with cyanide," Strasse exclaimed loudly, Greg could sense he was beginning to gain the upper hand here, he was beginning to hear the truth and stall his potential demise.

"It was never about the Nasjonal Samling was it? It was never about restoring its legacy, all those brutal murders, simply a revenge which has been waiting on seventy years?"

"I bet you don't know what it's like to grow up with a prison being the backbone of your childhood. Where my father spent the first fourteen years of my life, it's where I spent my weekends; it's where I was conceived." Greg tried to block out the mental images created by these statements. "I never knew my father properly, when he wasn't in prison, he was in some mental institute. When he moved on from there, he was in a coffin, six feet under."

"What about Joseph Huyt? Or Matthew Ellis? Or Dirk Faversham? What did they have to do with all of this?"

"Have you ever killed someone Hojem?" Strasse asked quietly, barely speaking above a whisper. "Have you ever felt the excitement, the adrenaline, the euphoria, of taking someone's life? And just like any thrill, you want to repeat it again, and again."

"I have killed someone," Greg replied coolly. "And let me tell you, I felt nothing but remorse. That feeling is what differentiates me from yourself, and it's what differentiated Papa Olaf, from your father."

"Well that's good, because I'd be ashamed to have any relation to that traitor at all!" Strasse screamed into Greg's face, swinging a punch which precisely struck Greg's left cheek firmly. Greg winced out in pain as he felt the full force of the punch.

"Strasse," a hooded man, one who hadn't yet talked spoke. "Do you hear that?"

There was an unusual silence which swept over the room as Strasse, the men and Greg, having recovered from the initial punch listened out. Over Peter's still spluttering, the sound was obvious and crescendoing rapidly. The sound of sirens. As a burst of hope emanated within Greg's mind, Strasse hissed something in Norwegian to the hooded man and the curly haired man by the door. Although Greg couldn't make it out what was said, the two men disappeared, presumably to meet the LVPD who were beginning to pull up.

"We'd better make this quick," Strasse nodded at Linden who still remained behind Greg. Before Greg, took notice of what he had said he felt a searing pain through his right arm as the minute blade swished across it, slicing the skin open. Greg could feel his own blood beginning to ooze out, praying to himself, that it was not too late.

* * *

><p>Nick pulled up alongside the house behind several patrol cars and one of the two ambulances which were part of their convoy. Heart pounding, he leaped and took cover behind the driver's side door, loading his gun. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sara and various officers around the perimeter doing the same. At the front of the house, there looked to be two figures crumpled on the floor. He saw two of the paramedics run up to them and begin to administer immediate first aid.<p>

Nick breathed a small sigh of relief, this looked to be the right location at least although he felt a cold dread overcome him as he saw the paramedics hurriedly wheeling the two figures on gurneys back towards the ambulance. Neither one of them was Greg or Peter Grimsrund, which meant they probably were still inside.

"Drop the weapons!" With cat-like reflexes, Nick rapidly took cover against the vehicle again as he heard Brass yelling to two more figures who had emerged from the front door. Nick immediately recognised one of them as the curly haired man who they had seen on the surveillance footage from Greg's apartment. Brass yelled at the two figures even louder. "I said drop the weapons!"

The sound of bullets immediately filled the air, as the two figures wordlessly opened fire on everything in the vicinity using what appeared to be a standard AK-47. Nick ducked as he saw various bullets flying around him, a few of them ricocheting and landing inches away from him. Nick felt his stomach clench, hoping that everyone had managed to avoid them. The air was filled with numerous shots, considerably louder than the initial firings, before there was total silence. Nick waited two seconds before peering up; he saw that the units had completely emptied their cartridges on the two men whose corpses lay motionless on the ground.

Nick sprinted to the front door of the house, following the SWAT team who had begun to storm the place. He heard various units clearing rooms on the lower floor and followed Brass and Officer Mitchell upstairs towards the only closed door on the landing. The three of them quickly waited outside as a SWAT team member ran up the stairs, armed with a small battering ram.

"On the count of three," Brass whispered to them. "One..."

_Bang._

* * *

><p>A single shot echoed throughout the house.<p>

Greg winced as the blade was thrust towards him again, this time aiming for his chest. Greg closed his eyes waiting for the pain to return only to hear the sound of raging gunfire coming from outside. Fortunately the sound of gunfire had halted the movement of the blade as both Strasse and Linden vacated their posts and dashed to the window, potentially prolonging Greg's life by mere seconds. _Seconds was all he needed_. He eyed the loose end of the tape and clenched it with his teeth, yanking it across his wrist as much as possible.

It was enough.

"We've got company," Linden told his boss, noticeably panicked. It became apparent to Greg that the 'rescue effort' appeared to be larger than expected, particularly to his captors.

"Let's welcome them with a bang," Strasse replied, brandishing a remote controlled device, complete with a flashing light. He made his way to the wall and placed his ear against it.

Greg's heart stopped as soon as he saw the device. He could hear his rescuers entering the house, checking downstairs, he could hear more footsteps making their way up the creaking stairs. Greg remembered being brought into the house, how he was ushered to the room slowly and precisely. _Let's welcome them with a bang_. The flashing device. Greg realised that his captors were well prepared, well prepared and willing to take the whole house down with them.

It was now or never.

"Do it," Linden hissed to Strasse as he positioned his thumbs on the device.

He inched his thumb towards the bottom of the switch, he prepared to flic...

_Bang._

A single shot echoed throughout the house.

Strasse dropped to the floor.

The door burst open as Brass, Nick and a member of the SWAT team stood in the doorway, brandishing their weapons. Greg felt himself being pushed back into his seat, his now-free left hand dropping Peter's gun he had snatched from the floor near to the chair, where Strasse had kicked it.

He saw the three figures in the doorway screaming at him, although all sound was masked by the whirring sound of a saw next to his ear, as he felt Linden's grip tighten on his shoulder, the buzzing got increasingly loude...

_Bang._

The buzz subsided as Greg felt the body of Linden collapse behind him. Smoke pouring from the gun held in Peter Grimsrund's hand. His final act of redemption. The body moved no more.

The moments which followed were a blur of emotions as he realised that in those past few seconds, it was over, and here he was, with only a minor slash on his right arm to take away. His eyes began to fill with tears as Nick and Brass rushed over, ripping away his adhesive restraints without even bothering to put on latex gloves. He felt himself hoisted out of the chair and his arm was draped around Nick's shoulder.

"It's alright G, I've got you," Nick told him as more tears began to cascade down Greg's cheeks. Greg wiped them away quickly, not wanting his colleagues to see him in this state, but when he turned to look at Nick, he saw that his eyes too, were glistened with tears.

* * *

><p>Greg waited patiently on the back step of an ambulance. He'd been waiting several hours, he had found himself being pestered by Ecklie, Catherine and even Mayor Grimmle about the events that morning. He still had blood on his hands, both literally and figuratively. Twice he had killed now. Once he had fired a gun, although thankfully no charges would be pressed towards him.<p>

He felt another figure sit down beside him. They took his injured arm into their hand, and Greg immediately felt a spark of butterflies in this stomach. He turned to see who it was and found himself looking into a pair of emerald eyes, complimented perfectly by the woman's jet black hair, which was tied neatly in a ponytail.

"Seems like we're always meeting in the back of an ambulance Mr Sanders," Amy Griffin spoke to him light-heartedly. "At least you can see me this time."

"You were there for me, weren't you," Greg replied sombrely. "That morning, in the alley."

Amy smiled and nodded to him. "October the twelfth, o-six. My third ever dispatch, and my most memorable to date. It's not every day a semi-conscious patient tells you that you sound beautiful."

"Did I really?" Greg smirked, Amy nodded. "Well, I don't try and remember that day particularly, you know. You came to visit me though; it's only now that I've just remembered."

"Rookie mistake, never get too attached to your patients."

They both laughed together and Greg felt his arm slipping out of Amy's hand, only he felt himself begin to hold on.

"I'm sorry I've been ignoring you," he spoke up.

"Don't be, I understand, with what's been going on. I guess I kind of was a little stalkerish." The two of them laughed again before Amy spoke up again sadly. "It's a shame we keep on meeting in this way, I'm sure you'd like to forget today as well."

"You know what, I think today will be one worth remembering."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: That concludes the story, and a major story arc. I hope that was a satisfactory ending for you, even if it was a little fast paced! I hope you've enjoyed it and your comments are always welcome! Thanks for your incredible patience!**

**The next story, **_**The House of Irony**_** (1x08) will be published on Friday, August 26 and it will definitely be a more light-hearted and humorous story to follow on this rather action packed one.**

**Thanks for reading! :)**


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